


Love and Hair Dye

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Crack Fic, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Smut, They love each other so much, Voyeurism, and think each other is so beautiful, oh the smut, self-conscious John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s silly and stupid and John knows that as he stares at the box of Just For Men Darkest Blond H-15 on the sink.  Sherlock’s never once indicated he was disappointed in any aspect of John, physical or otherwise.  In fact, if asked while John wasn’t in the room, he probably couldn’t say what John’s hair color was.  Not in a bad way…Sherlock remembers the important things.  Things John has said.  How he takes his coffee, the way he prefers brownies slightly underdone and his pasta a bit harder than al dente.  That he has a slightly ticklish spot just above his right hip and that his left arm can’t bend at certain angles.  But his hair color?  No.  Simply because it wouldn’t matter to Sherlock if John had no hair at all.</p><p>But he sees it.  John sees the bags and the wrinkles and the gray maybe this is a weak moment.  Dark Blond.  John is—was—dark blond.  It’s just a tint of color, just enough to cover the gray.  And he’ll feel better about himself, won’t he?</p><p>John sighs, and picks up the box.  “Just to cover the gray,” he murmurs to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Hair Dye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> This was inspired by [anigrrrl2](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/), specifically this post 
> 
> [regarding Martin's new brown hair](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/104178385661/the-brown-hair-is-really-um-nice-its-so-shiny-and) and this [follow up because I got Johnlock feels from having Martin's hair pointed out](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/104179560091/whimsicalethnographies-replied-to-your-post-the).
> 
> As such, I am gifting it to her, as I firmly believe in giving credit where credit is do for ideas, even if it's only a brief blurb. Muses are everywhere and deserve a shout out at all times!
> 
> NOTE: John's misgivings about his personal appearance in no way represent my actual feelings on Martin's aesthetic beauty. I love his eyebags and scars and nose and think they all make him positively adorable and that he is very handsome. This is not to knock Martin/John's appearance. 
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

John stares at the box of Just For Men sitting on the sink counter. He can’t believe he’s even considering this. Forty-two years and John very rarely considered his appearance. He knew he was attractive enough, endearingly cute and warm looking, even if he was a bit short. With an elfin nose. And acne scars. And eye bags. But it never bothered him, all the things he couldn’t change. He never had problems pulling with women (or even a few men, before Sherlock). People liked him. John knew he exuded a raw attraction that drew people in, even if he was unassuming and ordinary on the surface.

No, John was never bothered by some of his objective physical shortcomings. He worked them perfectly with his natural attractiveness, and it worked. He worked.

But in the last few months, since he and Sherlock had FINALLY come to their senses and took the plunge into a romantic relationship, becoming who they were meant to be since that very first day at St. Bart’s, well, John has become more aware of those objective physical shortcomings.

Anyone would, if Sherlock were their better half.

Sherlock is _beautiful_. Every day John has his breath taken away by Sherlock’s completely unwitting beauty. Tall and lanky, with perfect, milky skin (skin that looked even more achingly beautiful with neat little bruises sucked into it), unruly black ringlets that perfectly frame an otherworldly, ethereal face. Eyes that change color based on the lighting, the background, and his mood. And that brain, harsh and cold to the outside world, soft and warm when in their bed. John’s mouth waters just thinking about him, about the most exquisite creature in all of the universe. Sherlock is, objectively, FUCKING STUNNING.

Women and men fawn over Sherlock. Even Greg has admitted to having his breath taken away by the specimen that is Sherlock…over several shots of tequila in a pub, when John finally admitted their romance to him.

_“Well, fuck, John. It’s about damn time. Although I think Donovan won the pool…anyone could see you two pining for each other. The first day I saw it! I was wondering what took so long—I’ve never gone gay before, mate, but…ooooh! There’s something about him, eh? Kind of knocks the wind right out of you…makes you question things!”_

John hadn’t known how to respond. He’d felt a strange mix of pride and reassurance, and just a hint of incredulousness that anyone would dare objectify his Sherlock that way. But, when he woke up the next morning, gummy and tacky and more than a little hungover, and was met with a meticulously perfectly gorgeous Sherlock, his stomach had turned.

Sherlock is objectively gorgeous.

John is objectively not.

He knows Sherlock loves him. Sherlock has opened to him, shown him all he is, the good and the bad, and John knows this. John knows Sherlock sees him as his single point in the universe, despite his physical short-comings. Sherlock worships John constantly, every moment of every day, even when he is cold and indifferent and lost in his own mind.

John knows it. It is fact. It simply is.

And yet, when he stands next to Sherlock, he can’t help but feel hopelessly out of his league. Because he doesn’t understand. Sherlock could have anyone, male or female, he wanted. And yet he has only ever actively wanted one person: John.

He doesn’t understand.

Usually, Sherlock makes him feel immense. When Sherlock looks at him, the way those hard eyes soften when they’re alone, John feels as though he is the only man in the universe. The only human. The sun, a bright, burning star around which Sherlock will always orbit. Nobody has ever, or will ever, make him feel as powerful and as loved and as _perfect_ as Sherlock does, now that they’ve become what they are. Boyfriends? No, that word is too weak, too superficial. “Lovers” is disgustingly stale, and in John’s mind, places an over-emphasis on their sex life. They’ve always been “partners,” since that very first day. He and Sherlock were bound to each other, utterly, long before their relationship was consummated. John had stated outright, on that cold night when the plan had come to a head and John was finally free of his murderous, lying (not) wife, that he was coming back to stay, and wouldn’t leave, ever, even if all they ever had was what they’d had before.

When they fell asleep that night, Sherlock’s sweaty, damp curls tucked under John’s chin, John knew he’d never forget the look on Sherlock’s face, the wonder and awe and hopeless _adoration_ with which Sherlock had stared up at him as he poured all his emotions into his body. He knew he’d never forget the way Sherlock touched him, hesitantly at first, as if his skin was the most precious thing in existence. The way Sherlock said his name, soft and rough at the same time, growing louder and more desperate as John pushed his body to someplace it had never been with someone else.

And John will never, ever forget how beautiful Sherlock was, the first time he saw him flushed with arousal, deep in the throes of passion John honestly had no idea Sherlock was capable of.

That night, those months ago, John felt complete for the first time. He felt like the pinnacle of the man he could be.

Sherlock makes him feel like that regularly. John feels like he’s finally the man he was meant to be.

But when they’re out, when he sees heads turning—as they always have—to look and gawk at Sherlock (who, at least, could be deemed a minor celebrity), John feels that tiny niggling of self-consciousness. They aren’t publicly a couple, although they’re not denying anything, either, but John can’t help but think that if they were confirmed as in partnership, people would smirk and roll their eyes. John is short. John is old (well, older). There are bags under his eyes and lines in his forehead. His hair is mostly gray. John wonders, will they think, “why on earth is _he_ with _him?”_

And what if Sherlock were to ever start to think the same thing? With his rainbow eyes and raven curls and that face that perpetually looks like it belongs to an eighteen-year-old?

It’s silly and stupid and John knows that as he stares at the box of Just For Men Darkest Blond H-15 on the sink. Sherlock’s never once indicated he was disappointed in any aspect of John, physical or otherwise. In fact, if asked while John wasn’t in the room, he probably couldn’t say what John’s hair color was. Not in a bad way…Sherlock remembers the important things. Things John has said. How he takes his coffee, the way he prefers brownies slightly underdone and his pasta a bit harder than al dente. That he has a slightly ticklish spot just above his right hip and that his left arm can’t bend at certain angles. But his hair color? No. Simply because it wouldn’t matter to Sherlock if John had no hair at all.

But he sees it. John sees the bags and the wrinkles and the gray maybe this is a weak moment. Dark Blond. John is—was—dark blond. It’s just a tint of color, just enough to cover the gray. And he’ll feel better about himself, won’t he?

John sighs, and picks up the box. “Just to cover the gray,” he murmurs to himself.

***************

It doesn’t just cover the gray.

“Dark Blond” is a gross misrepresentation.

John is now veritably a brunette. A brun? Brunet? Is that the word for a male brunette? John doesn’t know, as he laboriously pecks out a customer service complaint.

Sherlock is reclined on the sofa, hands tented under his chin, belly slightly swollen from the half of Mrs. Hudson’s tart he inhaled after barely picking at the chicken John roasted for dinner. He didn’t say anything after John slinked out of the loo and straight into their bedroom. He didn’t say anything when John finally came out for dinner. In fact, John is sure he hasn’t even noticed. It’s endearing, in his mad, Sherlockian way.

But John is now a brunett—brunet. And he will be damned if Combe Incorporated doesn’t hear about it.

It’s awful. It makes John look like an aftershave commercial reject. AND, it’s a blatant testament to his own self-conscious vanity. He doesn’t even know how he can get it back.

John sneaks a peek over to Sherlock and hopes that Sherlock doesn’t notice—it’s not too much of a stretch, the man once failed to recognize that John had left the country—before he can fix it.

***************

Sherlock still hasn’t noticed. John stares at the ceiling, his vision blurring and tears clouding his eyes as sparks sear in his belly. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the bed, John’s thighs thrown up on either side of his. Two of his long, glorious fingers are buried knuckle-deep in John’s arse, his other impossibly large hand resting at the crease of his groin, feeling as John’s muscles twitch and jump involuntarily at the stimulation.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John arches a bit and moans. “More pressure, love…just a bit more—OH!” Seminal fluid pulses out of John’s aching cock as the tips of Sherlock’s fingers press just a bit harder into his prostate. It’s pooling on his belly, and John is leaking so copiously that it’s beginning to run down his side. He can’t see Sherlock—he can’t see much of anything with the stars bursting behind his eyes—but he knows what Sherlock probably looks like between his legs: eyes hooded and flushed red with arousal, his long, slender cock flushed gorgeous pink and stiff against his belly. John’s mouth waters and his cock pulses out more fluid at that image of Sherlock in his mind’s eye.

“Like that, John?” Sherlock’s voice is low and rough, but still surprisingly soft, as his fingers twist once and then curl again, catching the spongy nub of flesh. John can hear the smirk in his voice. Sherlock takes great pride in being able to so thoroughly please John.

“Fuck, love…yes…just like that,” John can, and has, come from Sherlock’s deft fingers (or that gorgeous prick) alone, exploding in a burst of white light and heat without either of them stimulating his cock. Those are John’s favorite orgasms; in his mind, they speak to the absolute heart stopping connection they share, a testament to the love and intense intimacy he’s never felt with another person.

“Do you want—”

“No,” John cuts Sherlock off with a strangled moan, the word barely recognizable. “Like this, love. Oh, fuck, Sherlock…but I want to see you. I want—Jesus, fuck—I want to come like this, and I want to watch you touch your-yourself…”

“You want to watch _me_?” Sherlock’s fingers stop twisting, and John moans in both relief and disappointment. The sensations are overwhelming. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can look at Sherlock. He’s beautiful, blurry and shimmery from the low light in the room and sheen of tears in John’s eyes. As John suspected, his white skin is mottled with pink and red, curly hair damp and tousled. He’s breathing hard through an open mouth, lips still raw and puffy from John’s ardent kisses before he laid back on the bed. His penis is fully erect and upright, the glans flushed the same color as his lips and wet with precome. His mouth floods again at the sight, and that strange feeling blooms in his chest again: awe and incredulity that this stunning creature belongs to him. That _he_ is the reason for Sherlock’s arousal. It’s humbling and John feels a hint of sadness poke through his desperate need to come.

But he pushes that inconvenient feeling down and exhales hard, “yes.”

Sherlock’s cheeks glow a brighter pink, if possible. While Sherlock has become increasingly more adventurous since their first night together, when he was a bundle of nerves and reluctance that John found positively delicious, he’s still fairly self-conscious, still discovering feelings he pushed down for far too many years. He still looks to John for guidance, still displays hesitancy when John boldly asks for something he’d never considered. While their sex life is equally shared and completely mutually enjoyed, John is undoubtedly the chief choreographer simply due to his much more worldly experience. But John’s found that Sherlock trusts him completely, which has led to John being able to trust more freely, to ignore his initial defensive reactions when Sherlock grabs him from behind or holds his arms down to the mattress. John loves when Sherlock takes a more dominant role in the bed, but he also loves orchestrating, loves whispering all his dirtiest, deepest innermost thoughts in Sherlock’s ear and watching as his cheeks flush bright red with embarrassed arousal.

“Why?”

Sherlock always asks why. John is fairly certain by now that it’s because he likes hearing John’s answers. He basks in John’s praise in all its forms, whether at a crime scene or in their bed.

“I could make you deduce it,” John winks, and pushes himself up into a full sitting position. He feels a tight pinch in his arse at the movement; Sherlock’s two fingers are still buried inside him. “But I like telling you,” he licks one of Sherlock’s cheekbones, and feels the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his skin. “And I know you like hearing it, even if you huff and roll your eyes.” John’s tongue swipes down the other side of Sherlock’s face. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Because you’re beautiful, you’re fucking gorgeous.” Sherlock shivers and John can’t hold in his moan when Sherlock’s fingers curl a bit inside him. “I love your fingers, your cock, your mouth…all of you, you make me feel so good. But nothing feels as good as watching you come…you’re so fucking beautiful when you’re coming, when that big brain of yours stops whirring. And I love your hands,” John bites Sherlock’s earlobe gently. “I love them on me and in me…and I want to see your gorgeous prick in your gorgeous fingers.”

Sherlock sighs shakily and John pulls back to give him a searing kiss, hot and wet. Sherlock tastes like mint and cigarettes and a bit like Mrs. Hudson’s tart, and he smells like rich, clean sweat and sex with just a hint of lemon and basil from his shampoo and John has absolutely no idea how he went so long without this when it was right within his grasp. He pulls out of kiss with a messy slurp and can’t help but laugh as Sherlock’s face instinctively moves to follow his mouth. His eyes are still closed and he looks positively debauched.

“You’re breathtaking,” John leans in for another kiss, gentle but still wet. “Can I watch, beautiful? Will you touch yourself while you fuck my arse with your fingers?”

Sherlock’s eyes open and he gazes back at John with an intensity that stabs sharp in his chest. “If you want me to…”

“Fuck, I do.” John reaches behind him—a bit awkwardly—and props a pillow up against the headboard. “Here, love…let’s scoot back a bit.” He manages to slide back so he can lean up against the pillows, and Sherlock’s fingers remain steadfast inside him as he follows forward, kneeling between John’s bent knees. The movement sends sparks through his prostate again and his cock dribbles out more fluid. John’s entire abdomen is slick with sweat and seminal fluid.

“Fuck, John, you’re making a mess,” Sherlock smirks, and bends forward over John’s belly.

“Wait!” John stops him before he can lick the salty fluid from his skin. “Give me your other hand, love.” Sherlock obeys, holding out his large hand, and John guides it to swipe over his belly, gathering the slick liquid into his palm. “There. Use that, and touch yourself.”

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock breathes and licks his swollen lips. He swallows hard. “What you if need—”

“I won’t. Now start moving those delicious fingers again and fuck that gorgeous fist with that gorgeous prick—OH FUCK!” Sherlock’s fingertips immediately curl back into John’s prostate, swollen and hard, and John struggles to keep his eyes open to watch as Sherlock wraps his hand, slick with John’s pre-come, around his cock and begins to stroke.

“John,” he moans, his hips stuttering forward slightly as he begins to stroke in earnest, his fingers still twisting and stroking inside John.

“That’s it, beautiful, long tight pulls…Jesus fuck, Sherlock, do you have any idea what you do to me, when you’re like this?”

“John,” Sherlock’s verbal skills deteriorate quickly when being stimulated, sharp cries and moans interspersed with John’s name. The sounds Sherlock makes during sex are the most beautiful sounds John’s ever heard. He can only hope Sherlock likes the sounds he makes in turn.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John grunts, his hips jerking. “A bit harder, love—yes!” John’s vision swims are Sherlock immediately increases the pressure of his fingers. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch, as Sherlock moans and doubles over, his left hand working faster over his cock, his right rocking harder into John. A bit of drool slips from Sherlock’s open lips and lands on the tip of John’s cock where he’s bent over him, and that deliriously filthy sight is almost enough to push John right over the edge.

“Fuck, Sherlock…you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” John can feel the warm pressure building in earnest in the pit of his pelvis. “Touching yourself…fuck me harder, love…that’s it,” Sherlock’s fingers start to piston in and out of John’s hole, stretched now and slippery, the pads of his fingers curling to press upwards on each pass. John is leaking freely now. He doesn’t know how he’ll have any come left when he finally reaches climax.

“John…”

“Look at me—fuck---look at me, Sherlock,” John orders, and Sherlock lifts his head, eyes boring directly into John’s. They’re almost black with desire and the red mottle is creeping up his neck. A bead of sweat runs down his neck and between his pectorals, over the small, shimmery purple mark just below his sternum. John reaches out to gently brush his fingertips over the scar, never breaking eye contact. “You’re so gorgeous…so fucking sexy, like this, all the time, but fuck Sherlock…so beautiful, touching yourself like this. I could watch you like this all goddamn day.” The pressure is building, spreading, and John’s toes curl into the mattress as his thighs begin to shake.

“I’m close, John…” Sherlock gasps.

“I know you are, love, I can see when you are,” John exhales hard through his teeth. He’s not going to last much longer. “FUCK!” He grunts as Sherlock’s thumb presses into his perineum, so he’s now pressing on his prostate both inside and outside John’s body. “Fuck, you’re amazing…everything, everything you do…you’re so beautiful, so perfect…everything…”

“So are you, John,” Sherlock’s hand moves faster on himself, his eyes still locked with John’s. “I love watching you, hearing you, even when you’re just reading some-something tedious in your chair…you’re—you’re perfect, John…so perfect…”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” The sharp stabbing in John’s chest returns one-hundredfold as Sherlock’s words, as simple and matter-of-fact as anything else he says, but in that soft, gentle voice that only comes out when they’re like this, wrapped up in each other.

“Please, John, I’m so close, please,” Sherlock’s hands are both losing their rhythm, but it doesn’t matter, because the pressure is cresting low in John’s belly and he can’t hold on anymore anyway, so he reaches out to grab the back of Sherlock’s head, and grips, hard.

“Me too, love, me too…come for me, I’m-I’m…” and John’s groan rips from his chest as the pressure and heat shoot down to his toes and up his spine and somehow, he still has enough in him to come heavy and hard across his belly and chest, cock jumping untouched, and he sees and hears Sherlock follow immediately, stomach contracting and his fingers curl hard into him as if he were an anchor. Milky fluid spurts out over his fingers and onto John, mingling with his own ejaculatory secretions. Sherlock exhales hard and slumps forward into John’s embrace and the mess, his fingers sliding out of John’s arse as they both continue to twitch and shake.

After a few minutes, when John’s heartrate and breathing have started to slow and Sherlock begins snuffling and nuzzling into his neck, John huffs out a laugh.

“Well, that was something.”

“Yes, quite.” Sherlock rumbles, getting both arms and hands behind John’s back in his characteristic death-gripe.

“Fuck,” John chuckles, running a hand up Sherlock’s bony spine. “We made a mess.”

“Most of it is yours.”

“Yes, well, it’s still your fault.” John presses a kiss into the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Mmmmm…”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, nuzzling and mouthing at sweaty skin and hair, and John thinks about what Sherlock said, while he neared his orgasm. _You’re perfect._ John swallows. “Sherlock,” he breaks the silence, hesitantly. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Mmmm…which part?”

“That you think I’m perfect…” the words come out a hushed, choked whisper, and John cringes inwardly at himself for asking, and for the question sounding so childish, so insecure.

But Sherlock only snorts. “Of course you’re perfect. Don’t be an idiot, John. You’re extraordinary and amazing and interesting and handsome and _perfect_ , even when you’re grouchy or hung over or go to boring work or think you have to dye your hair.”

 _Oh_. “You noticed.”

“Of course I did. I notice everything about you.”

“It was only meant to cover the grays. It’s fucking awful.”

“It’s not awful,” Sherlock pushed himself up on his arm so he’s leaning over John. He pushes his face into John’s hair. “It’s something new, and it’s you. Two of my favorite things.”

“Lookit you, making shit up.” John pushes up into Sherlock’s nuzzle.

“I’m not making shit up, John.”

“I look like a toupee-commercial after-picture.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind. It’s ridiculous. It looks fake.”

“It looks like you. As a brunet.” Of course Sherlock knows the male-version of brunette, the smarmy cocksucker.

“So you like this better?”

“Not better, John.” Sherlock pulls back and looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet. “I like all versions of you. This one included. You don’t have to bother changing it. It’ll grow out.”

“Hrmph. I’m going to the barber Monday. I’m going back.”

“Fine,” Sherlock plops back down and curls up against John’s sticky chest. “But you don’t have to change anything about yourself, John. Just be John. Perhaps I should have told you that...”

“Ok, now you’re really making shit up,” John swallows hard again, feels tears sting behind his eyes at the uncharacteristic consideration coming from Sherlock. Neither of them does particularly well with raw emotion expressed out loud, even as much as they desperately crave it from the other.

“You’re perfect, John. And beautiful and handsome and wonderful. Because you’re John. _My_ John.

“You’re perfect, too, love. Always.”

“Keep the hair.”

“I will if you bleach yours.”

“No.”

“Then I’m going back to my dull, yellow-gray.”

“Fine. Just stay John.”

“Always, my love. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any typos, etc. I'm fighting a nasty sinus infection and my brain is running rather slow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Myself, I Do Not Count & Unspoken, Spoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878692) by [patternofdefiance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance)




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